


perfect

by marcceh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, More ships to be added, Multi, Soulmate AU, chapters are vignettes from same verse from different characters' povs, including unrequited ones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-10 17:44:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20855741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcceh/pseuds/marcceh
Summary: Sherlock doesn't have a soulmark. He doesn't see what the big deal is. Most people disagree.





	1. Sherlock

Sherlock knows that, at 48%, just shy of half of all soulmate pairs ever even cross paths with their counterparts, and only two thirds of _ them _ever come together. So if you're alone, and/or unfound, along with 3.5 billion other people in the world, you are in good company.

So he really doesn’t see what the big deal is. He doesn’t have a mark, but even people who do - that is, most people - don’t find their soulmates anyway. 

Plus, studies show effort to make a relationship last contributes more to happiness than compatibility does, both when measuring peak happiness, and that over a lifetime. Just ask his parents. 

Of course there are anomalies. But they’re case studies that aren’t reflective of broader data.

The thought of a cosmic yenta with a large sharpie in hand, trying to keep track of people she thinks “would make beautiful babies together” makes Sherlock wrinkle his nose. That’s basically what it is, when it boils down to it. He couldn’t understand _ why, _ after _ so many millennia, _ humanity had yet to tire of the soulmark hype, as if it were some never-ending fad. It was something you were born with, a matter of fact. There was nothing _ extraordinary _ about it.

With 7 billion people in the world, the chances of two souls cosmically intended to be perfect for each other just dropped down to unfavorable odds. Instead, people developed a frenzy for pairing up with others of “compatible” marks, just to have something to do. Pseudoscience at its worst.

He’s seen how easy it is, for people to get suckered into the One True Love peddled by network TV and podcasts and - guess what - if he has a true love, it’s The Work. That _ does _ bring him happiness, of the euphoric sort. And contentment when it doesn’t. Not many matched can say _ that. _

When he thinks of it this way, he rather feels he’s sorted out the answers to life’s biggest questions.

  


.

Sherlock meets John, and Molly, and Mary, and he’d be lying to say they don’t challenge his worldview. 

Imagine his surprise when he returns from the dead, only to find his (former) flatmate sitting at a table for two, the soulmark he’d always meticulously worn a glove over open for all to see.

A petite blonde woman sat across from him, with a similar but not identical mark. They’re smitten, and he doesn’t need to be a genius (though he _is_) to see that. 

Sherlock takes to Mary much more quickly than he would have thought possible. The number of people he’s liked enough to painlessly tolerate, much less enjoy the company of, he can count on one hand. And out of those - the only one person he’s had a near instant affection for might be John. 

Mary brings that number to two. 

At the beginning, they’re so worried about not being “perfect” for each other that Sherlock sees how absurd the fad truly is. He has never seen John so happy, and he hasn't known Mary nearly as long but he’d bet nothing in her old life gave her so much satisfaction. 

And he’s…truly surprised at his _ own _genuine happiness for the couple. Sherlock hadn’t realized the love of his two best friends could affect him so much - that he could care for, not only their well-being, per se, but the happiness of their union.

He says as much at the wedding reception, and it gets quite the laugh. He doesn’t see what’s so funny about it, but he decides to leave it at that.

Sherlock’s satisfied with the status quo, but he soon learns John and Mary are not. 

.

“Ow! Ow - oh. Oh my God. Oh my God!” Mary heaves backwards in the backseat of the car, and as her dress goes up, so do Sherlock’s eyebrows.

The baby is coming.

John drives, just a little faster than he was before, but not so quickly so as to cause any risk. It doesn’t help that Mary’s hand slams into the back of the headrest of his seat.

“Relax,” John says. “It’s got two syllables..”

“I’m a nurse, darling,” Mary reminds him with a strained laugh. “I think I know what to do.”

“Come on them,” he encourages. “Come on.”

“Re-” Mary starts. Squirms. “Oh, just drive! Please, God, just drive!” 

Sherlock texts away, as he has been the past weeks. Consulting detective by text - there really is an app for everything. 

“Come on Mary,” he says, glancing over too quickly to see her progress. “Rela-”

_ “Don’t you start.” _

That cows him into silence. He types away, John driving, Mary heaving uncomfortably.

“John. I think you have to pull over,” she says suddenly. John tries to calm her, but Mary’s not having it. By the time Sherlock looks over -

“Oh my God.”

.

There’s a christening ceremony and the naming of godparents and two or three or five or ten parties Sherlock can’t quite keep track of. He can’t possibly fathom what other pomp and circumstance he could be in for when Mary and John sit him down and confiscate his phone to give him A Talk.

See, at this point, Sherlock had every reason to believe in their happiness. They’ve survived his _ coming back from the dead, _ they’ve survived marriage! They’ve survived a terrible transgression of trust, and come out the other side for the better. They’ve started a _ family. _

So when they say, 

“Sherlock, you’re our third.”

When they say, ‘we’re a triad, you see, and we talked about it.’

‘You fit that piece that’s missing between us, between the two of us.’

Mary and John are possibly the two people he has loved most in his entire life.

But when they say _ that _-

He feels used.

.

_ There once was a merchant in the famous market of Baghdad. _

_ There he sold his wares, and there he saw the face of Death. _

_ He looked up in surprise, and Death did too, pausing for a moment as if taken aback. _

_ The merchant seized on his moment, and ran. Pale and trembling, he fled the marketplace and leapt on his horse. His rode, miles and miles away until he reached the city of Sumatra. _

_ From there, he boarded a ship. Meanwhile, Death arrived in Samarra, miles further even, from the city to which the fled. _

_ He would not see Death again for quite some time. _

.

Sherlock is a bit furious - no, a _ lot _ furious. He feels he has every right to be, with the falling of fates.

Possibly humanity is doomed, and he should have seen this coming. 

Even Moriarty, at the end, disappointed him like this, with his overly romantic notions.

Furious, he flees. 

Sherlock takes a brief sojourn abroad, stopping first at his brother’s office to pick up a file to give him the pretense of having left because of a very important case.

It’s not as pleasant a holiday as he would’ve liked, and he’s sorry to say it has less to do with the quality of the case than the fact that Georgia will forever carry memories of the time when he was a ghost, and he no longer has any wish to be one. 

And yet. 

Here he is, running.

There he follows a lead toward the legendary Black Pearl of the Borgias; the vault’d been broken into, and while Sherlock can’t fathom the importance of a _ pearl, _of a lump of _ sand _ some sea mollusk happened to chew and regurgitate around, he is impressed with the security mechanism. 

Unfortunately, the leads take him back into London sooner than he would have liked. 

Sherlock has reason to believe after the heist, the pearl was shipped out of the country tucked away in memorabilia that wouldn’t have garnered a second glance. Plaster busts of some woman of no historical importance he can gather.

He lands in London with none of his friends the wiser, and, using the case as an excuse, sets out to tracking down the rest of the busts.

Sherlock soon discovers several of the half-dozen have been smashed already - and just his lucky, happens upon the mysterious vandal in time to witness the breaking of the fifth of six such statues.

There’s no pearl.

“It’s not possible,” Sherlock says before he can stop himself. “How could she…?”

A.G.R.A.

He saw John destroy the memory stick with his own eyes. 

“She,” the intruder sneers. “You _ know _ her.”

_ Mary. _ He’s talking about Mary.

Before either of them can make a move, sirens sound. He can’t let them see him - see that he’s back, and hasn’t contacted them. He doesn’t want to have to explain himself more than once.

.

Sherlock discovers the incident in Tbilisi, the hostage situation gone awry at the British Embassy, and Mary’s involvement. 

He hears it from Mary herself, over the tapped wires, as she confesses to John. Mycroft knows there’s a second stick now, that was the price he had to pay, plus a favor, to get his help to look after them - he can’t face them, not yet.

He has to track down this _ Ajay. _

.

“I swear to you Ajay,” Mary says, gun steady. 

She’d followed him, which meant John wasn’t far behind. The two ex-agents had each other at gunpoint, and Sherlock didn’t come _ all this way _ to be _ useless. _

“What did you hear, Ajay? When you were a prisoner, what _ exactly _ did you hear?”

He huffs.

“What did I hear? We were _ betrayed!” _

“And they said her _ name?” _ Sherlock presses. He believes Mary.

“Yeah, they said it was the English woman,” Ajay said.

Too ambiguous.

“Ammo, ammo, ammo. Every day as they tore into me,” Ajay says. “Six _ years _ they kept me there, until one day I saw my chance. Oh, and I made them pay. All the time I was there, I just kept picking up things - little whispers, laughter, gossip, how the clever agents had been betrayed.”

Sherlock sees the pain of old wounds reopened a split second before Mary does, perhaps more familiar with the feeling than he’d like to admit. 

“Brought down by _ you _,” Ajay says, and his finger moves - pulling the trigger.

Sherlock sees it a split second, mere _ moment, _ before Mary does - and he jumps.

.

Sherlock wakes up in a hospital room - nothing like a near death experience, a real one this time, to make you think about what matters. 

He marvels for a moment, of having lived so long without getting shot. In his line of work, and given his international expedition, these odds were truly extraordinary. 

In the quiet of the sterile room, with no sound but the hum of the machines and quiet snore by his bedside, Sherlock can admit to himself he’s been getting in the way of his own happiness. Turning them down because of his pride, and making everyone suffer.

The two of them, John and Mary, are asleep. Lestrade’s in the corner. Molly’s left flowers, but she must be at work.

Even Mycroft’s been by; he can tell by the angle of the napkins left by his cup. 

His fingers twitch, grazing the hands entwined next to him on the bed. The Watsons, his Watsons, start to stir.

Yes.

This seems about right.


	2. Jim

It’s initially a wonderful thing, when Jim Moriarty first learns of soulmates. The idea that there will be at least one person in the world who understand who he is, what he is, and accepts him - he feels great relief, learning of this secret of the universe as a small child.

Somewhere, out in the world, there is someone made just for him.

Life, which had not been easy up to that point, is not smooth sailing from then on either - but it’s a start. A tiny bit of solace, printed above his ribcage, underneath his heart. 

He finds his hand drifting over the mark whenever he is in need of such solace, and later has to train himself out of such a tell, but not for now. For now, it is some days the only thing in the world that has him pressing on.

.

He is desperately lonely. 

The world is full of the most loathesome people, none of whom come even close to understanding him, and his soulmate is nowhere to be found.

The romantic in his presses his hand over his heart and presses on. 

One day, he’ll meet them and he’ll just know. They’ll press their hand to his mark, and he will never have to be alone again. 

He tells himself this, when the loneliness gets to be too much. It is a thick, heavy blanket of cold that consumes him, and threatens to cut off the light and warmth of the world.

Eventually, it gets to be….too much.

The loneliness is hard to bear, but the hope is  _ worse. _ The hope has him looking round every corner -  _ hoping _ this next one is  _ the one. _

It never is. 

So he buries the hope, and embraces the loneliness, and throws himself into the world with wild abandon. After a while, he doesn’t even have to convince himself that he’s not disappointed, when each new partner in his arms bears no mark resembling his.

.

The latest in his long line of distractions is a clever young man who fancies himself a consulting detective. Jim likes the clever ones; they’re a cut above the trivial distractions of the night. Before him there was the dominatrix, and the redhead; both were thoroughly enjoyable, despite his losing them to their  _ soulmates. _

He rather thinks he’ll enjoy this one.

.

Sherlock Holmes is the bane of his existence - for no reason other that when Jim looks at him, he  _ wonders. _

Is this hope?

Is it  _ possible, _ that after years of searching, and years of  _ denying _ his search, his longing to search, that he was right all along - that there maybe is, just maybe, someone out there matched to him?

He’s desperately lonely.

It can’t be hope.

Every record says that Sherlock Holmes has no mark - he can’t possibly be Jim’s. He even sends his best to verify it, and The Woman comes back with nothing.

Sherlock Holmes has no mark - he can’t be his.

.

He  _ has _ to be his.

He’s not perfect, but he’s  _ close. _ He’s the closest Jim’s ever come to finding anyone who might understand him.

He  _ has _ to be.

Never mind that every record and source says he is unmarked. Never mind that when they touched hands in that lab, Jim felt nothing, no spark, no sign of a match.

He  _ has to be. _

.

He utters those same words when Mycroft Holmes finally agrees to sit across from him, answering questions about the man with no mark. The tall, cold man sits arms length away no matter how much Jim goads. No matter. Jim’s set his sights on what he wants now, and he can ignore the pitying looks from the stone cold spy, and ignore the twinge in his heart when he refuses to plan. 

He wonders, just briefly, at this other lonely soul, so protective of his skin, and his space. So unlike Jim, who brushes up against everyone, anyone, in hopes of finding  _ that one. _ Does he have someone, perhaps, stored away in his lonely fortress, his terrible lair? Would the universe match Mycroft Holmes, and yet not him?

What an awful thought. He casts it aside; and puts his mind back on the task.

.

Alicia Smallwood glances at the retrieved evidence, the  _ body, _ on the slab, and then back up at her once protege, eyes pausing briefly beneath his pocketsquare, beneath his  _ heart, _ before meeting his eyes.

“Cold, aren’t you?” she says, though she is glad it’s done. She’s read his plan, elaborate as it is, and has approved the mission. “To kill your own soulmate.”

Mycroft bristles, in that affected way of his.

“He pulled the trigger himself,” he says.

“Just as well it was you, though,” Smallwood says. 

Mycroft frowns, and Smallwood wonders if perhaps he truly doesn’t understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who should we do next hmm hmmm


End file.
